


Day 13: Warming up by the fire

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 25 Days of Fic-Mas (originally posted to tumblr) [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Hypothermia, Leaping into the Thames in mid-December, M/M, Rimming, Sherlock is a horndog, Smut Sunday, Warming up by the fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaps into the Thames in mid-December.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 13: Warming up by the fire

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Ok please don't judge me too hard, I've never written smut before, and this is basically 2000 words of just that. Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sherlock barely hears the crash of 221b’s door over the chattering of his teeth. It’s a good thing, too, since he also can’t really hear John’s yelling.

“--Thames in bloody December, Sherlock, what could you _possibly_ have been thinking!? I don’t care _what_ evidence we were about to lose, I was about to lose _you_ as well --”

John herds him into the sitting room and rushes towards the fireplace to light it. As he bends over, Sherlock’s water-logged brain can’t help but focus on certain parts of his anatomy that are now pointed in his direction, and between that and his chattering teeth,

“--are you doing!? Sherlock, I’ve just told you, you need to get out of that jacket!”

he’s not really catching on to what’s happening. John stalks over to where he’s shaking uselessly by the front door and starts to take the jacket off him, grumbling under his breath the whole time until his gaze gets caught somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s crotch.

“Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, how do you have enough blood flow to maintain _that_ when you clearly don’t have enough to maintain an adequate body temperature?”

Sherlock looks helplessly up at John, caught between wanting to explain that John’s arse had been _right there_ , how could he help it, and his teeth chattering too hard for him to even consider speaking right now. John can clearly read his dilemma in his expression, because he laughs quietly to himself and continues trying to manhandle Sherlock’s arms through the sleeves of his Belstaff. John does seem to know what he’s doing, the part of Sherlock’s brain that’s still functioning informs him; once the jacket is off, he feels a little bit warmer. His eyes follow John’s efficient movements, then get stuck on John’s arms, which are currently flexing with the effort it takes to fold up a giant, soaking coat. His crotch is starting to feel considerably warmer than the rest of his body.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock slowly manages to tear his eyes away from John’s arms and redirect them to his face.

“You’re incorrigible. I’m going to go into the bathroom to get some towels, can you get the rest of your kit off?”

Sherlock nods shakily.

“Good. Because once you’ve recovered we are going to be having a very long conversation.” John marches off towards the bathroom.

Sherlock takes a look at his ruined clothing, then bends to his task. His clothes are soaked as well as partially frozen, though they’ve started to thaw now that he’s in a heated room. The fire is starting to give off a proper glow and he can feel it right down to his bones. He peels off his shirt and throws it aside, knowing he’ll probably have to get rid of it after everything it’s been through, then focuses on his pants and trousers. With John out of the room, it’s easier to get his body under control, and by the time John comes back, Sherlock is peacefully sitting naked on the rug in front of the fireplace.

John has their biggest, fluffiest towels in his arms, and he sets them down on the ground next to Sherlock. He kneels behind Sherlock and picks up the nearest one, starting to dry Sherlock off.

“You all right, love? We just have to get you dry before the hypothermia sets in.”

Sherlock nods, his teeth still not allowing him to answer, and focuses on the fire slowly growing in the grate. John starts by gently running the towel down his arms, rubbing back and forth softly, and Sherlock feels the warmth through his entire body. He leans back into John, who is now rubbing his torso, and lets himself drift. He finds it hard to relax, however, when the towel brushes by his nipples and he feels a jolt straight into his previously under control cock. He hears John snort a laugh behind him. “You really are incorrigible.”

Sherlock nods his agreement and John keeps rubbing the towel all over him, slowly, until his entire body is dry and his cock is as hard as it’s ever been. Sherlock is really starting to wonder if his body knows how to prioritize blood flow when suddenly John starts to run the towel through his hair. His every follicle stands on end as the towel gently tugs at each one, and he moans softly as his whole body starts to tingle. John is being relentlessly thorough, rubbing the towel all through his hair as Sherlock arches into his touch, becoming more wanton by the second. Then, all too soon, the towel pulls away, and Sherlock can’t even protest because _his teeth are still chattering_. He would be furious if he wasn’t already trembling from an unnerving combination of cold and arousal.

“Shh, love, it’s ok. I’m just taking my clothes off.”

Sherlock perks up at this, but John laughs him off. “Sherlock, body heat! It’s for body heat!”

Sherlock starts to pout, but then John’s naked body is pressed against his and he forgets why he was angry. His teeth are chattering a tiny bit less, but he’s still not about to form a complete sentence. John pulls a towel around the two of them, and Sherlock shudders and sighs as the warmth finally starts properly returning to his body.

The warmer he gets, though, the more insistent his cock becomes, until it’s pressing very obviously into John’s thigh. Now that the crisis has passed, John’s body is starting to respond. Sherlock starts to rub himself against John’s thigh, moaning softly when John finally starts to press back.

His teeth finally cooperating, Sherlock murmurs, “It’ll get me warm very quickly, won’t it John?” He tries not to sound too pleading.

John’s response is to reach over and stroke him once from root to tip, and Sherlock moans a little more loudly as his hips thrust involuntarily upwards into John’s fist. John grins down at him, looking predatory now.

“It wouldn’t be _un_ helpful. But you’re still going to have to explain yourself.”

He reaches behind him to find the travel-sized bottle of lube they stash in the cushions of Sherlock’s chair for... emergencies. Opening it up, he squeezes out a small dollop before returning his hand to Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock hisses at the contact, then whimpers when John starts taking him apart with the slowest strokes he can manage.

“So why _did_ you think it was a good idea to leap into the Thames in mid-December, Sherlock?”

Sherlock is panting now, finding that for his brain, the combination of being frozen and aroused is not particularly conducive to thinking. He tries to string together a coherent sentence through John’s relentless teasing.

“The... phone. He threw the --” John gives a bit of a twist at the end of his stroke and Sherlock throws his head back with a moan. John looks at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to continue. “The vic-- victim’s phone. There was evidence in the... text... messages.”

John pulls him closer, then opens the bottle again to pour some more lube onto his fingers. He turns Sherlock over so that he’s on his stomach on the rug, then lies down on top of him. Sherlock feels his wet fingers roaming around his hips, his arse cheeks, and he tries to move so he can feel them where he needs them the most. John knows exactly what he’s doing, however, and keeps teasing him until Sherlock finally feels his finger circling his entrance. He lets out a relieved sigh.

“And we couldn’t have gotten those text messages from, say, literally anywhere else?” He slips in one finger and starts to wiggle it around, while Sherlock arches his back with a perfectly coherent _Hnnnngh_.

“Sherlock. Why couldn’t we get the texts from somewhere else?” Sherlock is barely aware of the fire crackling behind him as he pants into the carpet, letting out a breathless moan when John brushes past his prostate. John inserts a second finger before prompting Sherlock again.

“Sherlock. The texts.”

“The murderer had -- _aaahhhhhhh_ \-- had deleted the...” John rubs slow circles for a while before Sherlock manages to piece together the rest of his thought. “The. The texts... he was... not a complete.... idiot.” He is pleased with himself for making a complete sentence.

His pride at sentence-making evaporates with every other thought in his head when John bends to lick at where his fingers have entered Sherlock. His tongue is warm, so warm, and wet, and Sherlock feels saliva dripping down his body. It’s incredibly filthy, but he can’t help but press back for more. He cries out into the rug when John’s fingers hit his prostate again.

“So you’re saying another human being wasn’t an idiot, and that’s why you had to jump into the Thames in mid-December?”

Well, when he says it like that... But Sherlock can’t even piece together an argument properly with John giving little kitten licks all around his fingers. He barely manages a few incoherent syllables before John pulls his torturous tongue away.

Sherlock’s hips start rutting into the carpet of their own free will when John inserts a third finger. He’s panting even harder than before, and is grateful when John stills his hips because otherwise, this would be over before it even began. Satisfied, John removes his fingers, leaving Sherlock feeling horribly empty before the head of his cock pushes in. Sherlock pushes back with a gasp, and John sinks home, his body draping over Sherlock like a blanket. Sherlock feels John’s fingers slip beneath him, searching, until they graze over his left nipple at the same time as John’s cock slips past his prostate. Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head and his mind goes blank for a moment, sparks shooting through his body. John gives him a moment to recover, still teasing his nipple, then continues his interrogation.

“You know they could’ve sent someone else after the phone, right? Why did it have to be _you_?” he punctuates his last word with a snap of his hips, and Sherlock flounders for a moment before he manages to (finally) piece together a semblance of an argument.

“If you... ever... wanted... this case... _solved_ \--” he cuts off, panting as John gives a series of hard thrusts, unerringly hitting his prostate, wiping his brain completely clean. Sherlock is moaning regularly now, sparks shooting off behind his eyes, and he knows he’s not going to last much longer than this. He’s pushing himself back into John, and John is still incessantly tugging on his nipples, and it’s starting to become too much, and he’s going to _come_ \--

John abruptly stops thrusting and leans a little further forward, gently lapping at the shell of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shudders, trying to get the stimulation back, but John isn’t giving in. Sherlock feels a touch of teeth, then a hot whisper of, “Of course I want it solved, Sherlock, but I also want _you._ ”

The whisper nearly does him in, and he shivers in John’s arms. John reaches beneath them and gives Sherlock one slow stroke with the same little twist as before, gives one sharp thrust, and that _does_ do him in, and Sherlock’s body is trembling, every muscle contracting, his mouth freezing open on John’s name as his eyes roll back in his head. He vaguely feels John pulling him closer and saying his name as he shudders through his own orgasm, and then the two of them collapse onto the rug in a warm pile of sated limbs.

Sherlock lets himself be pulled deeper into John’s fire-warmed arms, feeling safe and content. The fire crackles merrily at them as John whispers to him, “I love you, Sherlock, but please, never do that again.”

Sherlock smiles sleepily into John’s shoulder as he replies, “If that was meant to put me off jumping into the Thames, John, then you’ve made a rather big mistake.”


End file.
